


Light headed, good....urinating in wardrobes, bad

by TooManyChoices



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drunkenness, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:24:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been musing over the Molly/Sherlock pre-stag night scene for months. This is my take on the shared experience that lead to Sherlock coming to Molly for pub-crawl advice.<br/>The mystery of the 'while Sherlock was dead' Molly/Sherlock dynamic keeps me awake at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Light headed, good....urinating in wardrobes, bad

We join our beloved detective and his plucky pathologist as they stand side-by-side at the cluttered bench in Molly’s morgue (OK, so we know the morgue isn’t ACTUALLY Molly’s, but we all like to think of it as hers)

Sherlock has just been discussing his plans for John’s stag night. Sherlock is delighted at his corpse themed pub crawl and asking Molly to calculate optimum alcohol dosage.

“You’re a graduate chemist. Can’t you just work it out?” Molly takes said folder as she continues with her REAL work…the sort she gets paid for.

“I prefer the practical experience.”

“Meaning you think I like a drink….” Molly’s not smiling now.

“Occasionally.”

“….that I’m a drunk.”

Absently Sherlock responds, “No..” before spotting the emotional hand-grenade that he may have just pulled the pin from…” ….NO!” He adds vehement head-shaking for effect.

Sherlock removes a manila folder from inside his coat, brimming with information including what she thought was a disturbing picture of Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man with John’s face pasted over the head.

Molly smirks a little before leafing through the papers.

“So, light-headed good” Sherlock clarifies.

“Urinating in wardrobes…bad.”

There’s brief eye-contact. To the untrained observer, the comment is simply a reference to unacceptable social behaviour. But we’re not just any observer..are we? We’re Sherlockians….and we see everything. We see the twinkle in her eye, the sudden softening in Sherlock’s features as his quicksilver brain plays back shared memories of an evening two years ago shared with the woman in front of him. We’d LOVE to see what he’s seeing in his mind palace…wouldn’t we? So let’s take advantage of our omniscience and take a look. Follow me.

_Molly’s flat – eighteen months ago_

“Damn!”

The exclamation penetrates the stillness of Molly’s flat, carrying clearly from where Sherlock is experimenting (on the desk he’s setup for the purpose in Molly’s now commandeered bedroom).

“Sherlock?” Molly is alert but not alarmed, now acclimatised to the more chaotic ebb and flow of her days with the detective-in-residence.

“You may want to bring a cloth.” There’s a pause before Sherlock calmly continues, “….there appears to be a substantial amount of blood.”

“Whose?”

“Mine.” Another pause, “May I bother you for a sterile dressing…..perhaps two.”

There’s an odd strained note to his voice that Molly doesn’t like, so she grabs her first-aid kit before heading to her bedroom (and yes, she does still like to think of it as HER bedroom).

“Good God Sherlock, what have you done?”

Sherlock is standing at the desk, one hand clasped over the other forearm, and blood is dripping quite freely between his fingers. He grits his teeth, clearly in pain but still manages a snarky, “Obvious.”

Molly ignores the tone and strides toward the tall man. With a firm hand on the chest, she pushes him wordlessly back toward the bed, forcing him to sit on the edge and lifts his bleeding arm so it’s above the level of his heart. With a clean dressing, she takes over Sherlock’s job of applying pressure to the wound.

She lifts the edge of the gauze and is gratified to note that the bleeding has slowed. A knick to the artery, would have been disastrous. Sherlock, being ‘dead’, can’t really turn up at A&E without some pretty serious questions being asked.

“Bad?” he asks

“Bad enough. It’s going to need a couple of stitches. Good think you have a tendency to accumulate friends with medical training, hey?” She smiles reassuringly.

“You have sutures in your kit?” He seems surprised.

“I have everything except anaesthetic……Sorry. It’s going to hurt.”

Sherlock’s lip twitches up as he winces at the thought. He’s had enough injuries to know the impending procedure won’t be at all pleasant.

“I have an idea. Here’s hold this…” Molly grabs Sherlock’s other hand, guiding it to keep the gauze in place,”…I’ll be right back.”

She bolts from the room and kneels before the sideboard in the sitting-room. There’s a rattle and a percussive clink as she retrieves a bottle and glass. Pausing briefly, she grabs a second glass before heading back to the bedroom.

She holds up her prizes in both hands, bloody fingers leaving scarlet prints on the crystal scotch glasses and squat bottle.

“Redbreast whiskey? You have good taste Molly Hooper. Almost seems a shame to waste it in this way.”

“Alcohol’s never wasted if it achieves the desired effect. I’m sure this bottle will be happy to make the ultimate sacrifice in your name, Sherlock.”

For the first time since she entered the room, he smiles and she’s a little surer that she can do this. It’s been a long time since she’s had to work on a live person and if she’s completely honest with herself, she’s feeling a little nauseous.

The light in her room is good. Even before Sherlock moved in, she’d routinely worked through files on her desk here and she’d had additional lights installed to ensure the entire room was bathed in an even white light even in the depths of London Winter. While the bathroom would probably be more hygienic, the bedroom was warm, comfortable and she had everything she needed close at hand.

Sherlock slips his dressing gown down off his shoulders, the sleeve irredeemably ruined by the long gash, and Molly helps him carefully ease his shirt off, trying as much as possible to avoid jostling the gauze pressed against the cut. There’s a moment of awkward tugging as they both realise too late that unbuttoning his cuffs before pulling the sleeves from his arms would have been wise, but they manage and soon it joins the robe on the floor.

Molly pours a generous two fingers of whiskey in both glasses and holds one up to the detective. Taking it, he smiles wryly and clinks the glass against hers before downing it in two swallows, grimacing against the burn.

She adds another generous pour to Sherlock’s glass before sipping at hers and arranging the first-aid equipment beside her on the bed on a sterile drape that’s included in her kit.

She glances up, “Drink up Sherlock, you’ll thank me for it later.”

“I doubt I’ll be thanking anyone, I’m not a particular fan of inebriation, it dulls the brain. I haven’t touched a glass since Uni.” Nevertheless, he downs the second double shot, his nose crinkling as the extra dose joined the first in his stomach. “I suspect these two will be enough to have the desired effect.”

“So…cheap but not easy?” Molly cradles her own glass, sitting easily next to the tall man and letting the whisky do its work.

Smiling at the innuendo he nevertheless clarifies, “I doubt anyone who’s ever met me would call me _easy.”_

“Cheers to that” Molly gestures with her own glass and takes a small swig, just enough to calm her nerves.

“Indeed” Sherlock holds out his empty tumbler for another refill as he sighs deeply and lifts off the gauze.

“Ready?”

A steady nod is all the reply she needs before she gets to work.

It takes nearly half an hour of threading and knotting and stifled gasps of pain and supressed flinches before the job is done. Sherlock becomes progressively less twitchy as the time has gone on and when Molly ties off the last stitch and looks up, Sherlock is blinking slowly as if hypnotised by her hands as they work on her forearm.

She puts down the needle and touches his arm gently, “You OK?”

He looks up at her in exaggerated slow motion, swaying slightly and smiles, open and more serene that she’s ever seen him. “Fine….just…..fine.” He holds out his glass again. It still holds a fingers-width from the last top-up.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were susceptible. Look at you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re tanked.”

“M’not.” He grins, oddly childlike then giggles softly as recognition hits, “Oh…am…” He waves his uninjured arm in a vague negative gesture, “Shhh, don’t tell Mycroft.”

She grins a little at that and holds a finger up to her lips in conspiratorial agreement. “OK Sherlock, we’ll keep this between us.”

He’s flexing his arm, inspecting the neat row of black thread, “Looks…..” he frowns slightly as he grasps for the word he wants, “..good.”

Molly is fast coming to the conclusion that Sherlock, in addition to being comfortably numb, is far more amusing drunk than sober. A wicked part of her brain plots on how she can take full advantage of this rare event.

“Come on you, up. We’re moving to the lounge.” She passes her arms under his and levers him up off the bed, momentarily staggering as she finds her arms full of towering and wobbly detective. Sherlock looms over her, arms draped warmly around her neck and cheek pressed against her hair.

“Mmmm, never knew you cared…” He slurs and then chuckles deep and sultry, “OK….perhaps I did.”

Molly rolls her eyes, “Yes Sherlock..It was all part of my evil plan, to somehow get you to gash your arm so I could ply you with alcohol and have my wicked way with you. It’s what I’ve always wanted.”

Sherlock leans back in her arms and reaches a weaving finger forward and finally settling it on her nose, concentrating hard as he does so, “Knew it….you…” Another tap to the nose, “..want me.”

Molly sighs and shakes her head, reaching to grab her glass and the bottle before manoeuvring to the lounge and dumping the lanky man onto the sofa. Looking down at him as he sags against the cushions, she shrugs and drains her own glass. She feels sobriety is going to be an unwelcome guest for the remainder of the evening.

Two hours later, most of the bottle is empty and Molly and Sherlock are comfortably slouched against each other. After a challenging game of eye-spy, they moved onto a truly informative game of “I have never…” during which Sherlock learned Molly has never eaten sushi, Sherlock has never wolf whistled a girl and they are now uncomfortably aware that both have simulated oral sex with a beer bottle.

Molly is at a comfortable level of intoxication. Pleasantly buzzed, prone to bouts of giggling and although the whisky has her sharing some details she’ll probably regret in the morning, she’s still very much aware of who and where she is. She’s, through necessity, taken on the unofficial role of ‘the sensible one’ for the night and is keeping a watchful eye on the increasingly woozy man at her side.

Sherlock’s not faring as well. Four standard drinks ahead of Molly, his extra height is doing little to compensate for the extra intake and his lowered tolerance. While the alcohol is certainly numbing the pain of his arm, it’s doing nothing for his fine motor skills and when he knocks his empty tumbler to the floor while reaching for it, Molly decides he’s had enough.

“Bed” she announces.

Sherlock turns and leers pornographically at her through half-closed eyes “Thought you’d never ask.”

This is another facet of an inebriated Sherlock that arrived unexpectedly. While sober Sherlock is controlled, reserved and aloof, drunk Sherlock is a shameless flirt. Molly may temporarily bask in the overt attention, but she would never consider taking advantage of the situation. If he really wants her, he’ll make advances when he’s in control of his faculties.

She dodges a kiss, turning her head to have it land on her upturned cheek and corrects him, “Not us you ridiculous man….you. Up you get.” She pushed ineffectually at his shoulder.

He pouts, plush lips pushing out and eyes widening as eyebrows raise in mock despair.

“No Sherlock, seriously…..bed.”

He nods slowly, beaten. “OK….just….” a pointing finger is raised with an exaggerated serpentine motion,”…..bathroom.”

Levering himself off the sofa, he steadies himself on the arm as he realises how impaired his balance is and Molly watches as he weaves in the general direction of the loo. Almost too late, she watches in horror as he valiantly tries and succeeds in opening the door to the linen cupboard adjacent to the toilet before ducking inside.

She’s on her feet in a moment, swinging open the door through which he’s disappeared, finding the tall man standing somewhat bemused surrounded by shelves and sheets. He looks over his shoulder at her, hand on his flies.

“Molly……” He begins tentatively, “When did we start keeping sheets in the toilet?”

She leans her forehead on his broad back as laughter threatens to overcome her. She winds her arms fondly around his middle and guides him back out of the cupboard and through the correct door. Sherlock grins as his universe begins to make sense again.

As she stands in the open doorway, back turned to afford him some privacy she hears him mumble, “OK……right…got it….light-headed good…….urinating in wardrobes…..bad.”

Molly’s head drops forward as she smiles to herself and mutters, “World’s greatest detective……..my arse”


End file.
